Organize Your Corpses (17 page)

On the downside, I had plenty of time to think about Dominic Lo Bello. I reminded myself, the trouble with letting your knees melt is that you might need those knees someday. Say, to stand up for yourself.

I turned my mind from Dominic to Mr. Kanalakis and used my cell phone to call the number I’d copied down from behind the vegetable painting. I borrowed the name of my mother’s main character in her detective series and booked an appointment for the next day.

At nine o’clock when I heard Jack arriving home, I called out, “Come on up. I have your favorite chocolate.”

“Mr. Kanalakis? You’re kidding,” Jack said when I had sidetracked him with chocolate and filled him in on my plan. “Holy crap. You’re going to track him down?”

“I already have.”

“And what? You’re thinking of going to see him?”

“Not thinking. Planning.”

“Not by yourself, you’re not,” Jack said.

“That’s the whole idea, Jack. Have another truffle.”

 
Thursday dawned, mild and sunny, probably because I’d hauled out my winter clothing the night before. Never mind. I woke up early with plenty of time to give the dogs the kind of long walk they refuse as soon as it’s the slightest bit wet or cold.

Later as Truffle and Sweet Marie slipped back to bed, I savored my first morning coffee and planned. I had the can’t-find-her-passport-to-go-on-her-honeymoon client scheduled for nine and the out-of-control dolls for eleven. I was meeting Dominic at three. I planned to pop in to see Rose in between. The rest of my list had lovely tasks on it, including “sketch laundry room solutions” and “read up on doll storage.” And some not so lovely: “buy food.” For some reason I didn’t feel much like heading to the grocery store. I was sketching up a few tentative concepts for the laundry-room client when the doll client called and muttered an excuse for canceling. Perhaps the dolls had pulled the plug on the project. The minute I hung up, the missing-passport client called to say she’d found it and didn’t need anything organized.

All right. Roll with the punches. I used the time to plan a drive in the country.

 
A tempting aroma wafted gently around my nose when Rose opened the door. I couldn’t believe my luck.

I breathed in deeply and said, “You made Toll House cookies?”

“Why, hon? You don’t like ’em?”

Like them? I love Toll House cookies more than is normal for a functioning adult. Maybe because my mother never made them. Of course, she never made any cookies, as I may have mentioned. In fact, I’m not certain we had a working oven. Never mind. I’m trying to stay in the now, as they say.

“Sure I do,” I said with restraint. “And I have something that will go nicely with them.” I handed over the gift-wrapped package containing the pretty plate.

Rose said, “Aw, hon. You didn’t have to do that.” But I could tell she was pleased. Her cheeks still had a pink tinge long after we settled into the living room. The tinge went well with the robin’s egg blue jogging suit. The suit itself was a jolt to the retina, especially against the orange background of Rose’s chair. Sometime after her second cup of coffee and my fourth Toll House cookie and tall glass of water, Rose said, “You know, hon, you don’t need to bring me presents.”

“I thought that plate would go well with your living room. And with your cookies.”

“Listen, hon, I’m stuck here on this street with no one around, and I’m not much good at getting out with this claptrap oxygen tank on. I have a bad addiction to baking, and here you are showing up, happy to chat. I should be buying you presents.” She raised an eyebrow.

I said, “In my defense, it was just this one gift, one time.”

“And it’s beautiful and I love it. But I want you to feel free to drop in anytime and help me eat my cookies. No gifts required. So now that the politics are out of the way, what can I do for you, hon?”

“Talk to me about Henleys, of course.”

“Don’t you think you should try to put that whole Henley problem behind you?”

“I still feel guilty because I cashed Miss Henley’s check.”

“Well then, give it away. Maybe the food bank. Or the historical society. You could even ask Olivia if she’d like it to go to a certain charity. She used to support the Children’s Hospital.”

“I’m not allowed back in to see Olivia, remember? She was so upset when I asked her about Crawford that they had an awful time with her.”

Rose frowned. “I still don’t understand that. Olivia always had her little tantrums, even when she was a kid. Pitch a fit and then get over it. Sounds like that’s what happened here. Although I have no idea how Crawford’s name could set her off. Maybe it just hit her that she must be the only cousin left. And she’s old and fragile too. You want another cookie? I made a double batch.”

“So you don’t think Crawford ever upset or hurt her.”

“No, I don’t. He thought the world of her. End of story. Come on, just one more won’t hurt you. They’re only cookies, you know.”

I took the cookie. Information doesn’t come cheap.

I said, “When I asked her about him, she was shocked. No act, no time lag. Her face changed, as if she’d been slapped.”

“I still think it must have another explanation. Someone she saw passing by in the hallway at that moment, perhaps. An image on the television.”

“If you say so.”

“What puzzles me,” Rose said, “is why Stone Wall Farm would take that attitude. They must know that it’s good for their residents to get visitors.”

“Well, that’s the sad bit. It’s not just Olivia. There’s Gabriel Young too.”

“I’ve got lots of time and plenty of cookies, so tell your story, beginning to end. Don’t be springing surprises on me. Who’s Gabriel?”

By the time I finished, Rose had a faraway look in her eyes.

“It sure seems wrong,” she said. “I used to be able to visit Olivia every now and then when my husband was alive. Now that stupid old car of his just sits in the back of the house, rusting. It really burns me.”

I nodded. My mouth was full.

Rose said, “Oh well, what can you do? People die. You know, I’ve been feeling bad that I missed out on that memorial service. It’s only right that I go by and see my old friend Olivia. Bring her a little treat and talk about old times. Maybe tote along some of the old photos that I have of the family. Yes. That’s just what I’ll do.”

“I would really appreciate it, Rose. But how will you get there? You can’t be seen with me. Or Jack. They wouldn’t let you through the door.”

“I can always take a cab.”

“Forget the cab. That will cost you a fortune to get out there. I know someone who can probably take you. You’ll like her too. I’m pretty sure she’ll go for your cookies. I’ll let you know as soon as I clear it with her.”

“Have it your way.” Rose shrugged. “Something wrong with that last cookie on your plate, hon? You think it’s gonna kill ya?”

11

Finding Mr. Kanalakis was like taking a trip back in time in more ways than one. After a lot of false turns, Jack and I finally bumped along the dirt track to a log cabin in a clearing. The cabin could have been straight from a history book except for the dusty Ford van parked near the front door. Mr. Kanalakis emerged from the cabin as we got out of the car and blinked in the bright light. He’d been fresh out of university with a master’s in fine arts and the ink barely dry on his teaching diploma the semester he’d taught us art at St. Jude’s. We’d never seen anyone like him. Not just because he’d been a hunk, which he had been. But also because he was the size of a truck, with more enthusiasm and fun than the rest of the staff squared. He’d boom with laughter and the light fixtures would shake. Keeping order hadn’t been any kind of problem, not with those hamlike hands. We’d called him Hercules. “Herc! Herc! Herc!” had been a favorite refrain. The kids had loved him, while he lasted. Which was less than six months.

Now his ponytail was greying and his hairline had crept back a couple of inches. He must have been carrying an extra sixty pounds. But his wicked black eyes hadn’t changed. This was still a man to command attention.

“Looks like you got me,” he said. He still had that hint of the South about him; I never could put my finger on his origins.

I had trouble making eye contact. “I needed to talk to you. I didn’t know how you’d feel about that if you knew it was me.”

He shrugged one massive shrug and headed into the log cabin. Jack and I followed him. Jack was trying not to sniff the air too obviously. Me too. Turpentine, for sure. But perhaps an underlay of cannabis, unless I was mistaken. The walls were covered with dark brooding canvases, oozing menace and testosterone. I found my eyes drawn to them. Each had at least one dramatic slash of red.

Jack seemed riveted by the interior of the cabin. “Hand-hewn logs?” he said.

“Yep.” Mr. Kanalakis didn’t offer us any hospitality, not coffee, not cookies, not hash brownies.

“You heat by wood?” Jack said.

“Heat pump and passive solar for electricity. I’m off grid here. Produce more than I need.”

“Wow,” Jack said.

I just hoped it didn’t mean that Jack now needed an off-grid, passive-solar bike shop in an upscale part of Woodbridge, because that was going to take some effort.

I said, “I just want you to know that I’ve always been sorry for my part in what happened.”

“You were just kids.”

“I wanted to tell the principal it wasn’t true. Pepper was with me that afternoon, but her father would have beaten her black-and-blue if he found out she’d played hooky.”

“Yep. He’d sure done that enough times.”

“She was so frightened.”

He nodded. “I figured it out. I knew you gals didn’t start that trash talk. It was Old Hellfire wanting to get rid of me. She knew her way around a nasty rumor.”

“You still blame Miss Henley for starting that story about you and Pepper?”

“Everyone else believed she did,” Jack interrupted. “You’re the only one who ever gave her the benefit of the doubt, Charlotte. And I want to say none of the kids believed it, sir.”

“I just couldn’t accept that she could start such a terrible lie deliberately. I told myself she misunderstood,” I babbled.

“Yep, well, don’t worry about it. Getting fired was the best thing that ever happened to me,” Mr. Kanalakis said, staring down at me. “In terms of my art.”

“I’m sure it was.” I glanced around the log cabin at the paintings. Unlike his frisky vegetables paintings at Mystic Mabel’s, these paintings were large, dark, menacing. Each one more unfathomable than the last. I noticed the signature on these was “Kanalakis.” He wouldn’t want any serious collectors to catch that he did quick commercial stuff for gift shops.

“If it weren’t for that tall tale, I’d still be a third-rate art teacher dealing with a bunch of horny adolescents at St. Jude’s. The old bitch did me a favor really. And I made sure she knew it every time I ran into her.” Mr. Kanalakis folded his massive arms and leaned back against his kitchen sink, which was pretty much the only place that didn’t have a canvas in the way.

“You did? Did you see her often?”

“Not if I could help it. Even the thrill of telling her how well I was doing wasn’t worth the aggravation of seeing the poisonous old hag.”

This is what I needed. Someone who didn’t hold back.

“So can you think of anyone else on the staff who might have hated her?”

He blinked. “You mean, besides me?”

“Well, ah, yes. I mean, is there anyone else you can think of?”

“Do you think I murdered her?”

“Not at all. I just—”

“Because I didn’t.”

“Of course not. I don’t mean to—”

“She did get me fired midterm from my first teaching job. She was the one who accused me of making out with a student. And she made sure that I’d never get another job teaching in another school in the state, if not the country. She lied and schemed and plotted. I’m lucky I didn’t get arrested. And an innocent girl was lucky she didn’t get the shit beat out of her by her thuggish cop of a father.”

This conversation couldn’t be good for his blood pressure if the color of his face was anything to go by.

I broke in, “You did say that getting fired worked for you.”

“Sure, it did. But I still hated her and I absolutely would have enjoyed killing her. I often imagined how I could do it. Something dramatic, something painful, something artistically right for her. Maybe involving a hot mangle or a silver smelter or an iron maiden. I just never got the opportunity.”

I said, “Hm.”

“Oh well,” Jack said.

Mr. Kanalakis sighed. “Just disappointing, that’s all.”

“For sure,” Jack said.

“Do you think she suffered?” Mr. Kanalakis added wistfully.

“Definitely,” I said. “Are you in touch with any of your former colleagues from St. Jude’s?”

“Nope. They wouldn’t come near me afterward. I was like a leper. They would all have been scared shitless of what would happen if Old Hellfire found out they had any contact with me.”

“I suppose I’m wasting your time. I just wondered if you had any idea of who else might have wanted to kill her.”

“Who didn’t? That’s my point.”

“Well, I didn’t,” I said.

“I’m surprised. I imagine most of your friends did.”

Jack said, “Hold on.”

“And your little friend Pepper sure had reason to.”

Jack said, “Whoa, easy there.”

Mr. Kanalakis grinned and said, “Why should you care about all of this? The witch is dead.”

“Maybe I feel guilty because I didn’t meet her the night she died.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” He threw back his head and roared. He had some serious fillings. “Guilty? For all I know the historical society bumped her off to get the property, or the mailman did it because she bitched about the service. The point is the world is better off without her and there’s no need to feel guilty about it. Rejoice!”